But a great good fortune had come to them--so great that as they
looked down the valley they could scarce credit their own senses.
Behind the division of the Dauphin, which had pressed them so
hard, stood a second division hardly less numerous, led by the
Duke of Orleans. The fugitives from in front, blood-smeared and
bedraggled, blinded with sweat and with fear, rushed amidst its
ranks in their flight, and in a moment, without a blow being
struck, had carried them off in their wild rout. This vast array,
so solid and so martial, thawed suddenly away like a snow-wreath
in the sun. It was gone, and in its place thousands of shining
dots scattered over the whole plain as each man made his own way
to the spot where he could find his horse and bear himself from
the field. For a moment it seemed that the battle was won, and a
thundershout of joy pealed up from the English line.
But as the curtain of the Duke's division was drawn away it was
only to disclose stretching far behind it, and spanning the valley
from side to side, the magnificent array of the French King,
solid, unshaken, and preparing its ranks for the attack. Its
numbers were as great as those of the English army; it was
unscathed by all that was past, and it had a valiant monarch to
lead it to the charge. With the slow deliberation of the man who
means to do or to die, its leader marshaled its ranks for the
supreme effort of the day.
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